


The sleeping detective

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Gen, Literal Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 13:56:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12842616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Sherlock and Greg accidentally sleep together, platonically. The problem is that it is the best nap ever and Greg wants to do it again.Inspired by Friends.





	The sleeping detective

Sherlock was waking up gradually. Without opening his eyes, he yawned quietly. He didn't remember falling asleep on the sofa, but God, he needed some rest. Now he was feeling so content and relaxed, it felt like lying on the warm grass on a balmy summer day. Strangely enough, the sofa was never particularly comfortable in his opinion. It wasn't that soft and warm and...

It was _not_ the sofa. His head was resting on something else. Not a cushion, unless cushions breathed slowly. He suddenly became acutely aware of an arm wrapped around his back. His own hand was touching someone's stomach. He couldn't open his eyes. He didn't want to know who it was. Oh, God, what if it was Philip Anderson?

The mysterious man stirred and muttered some nonsense. Sherlock recognised the voice. Lestrade. He had come to discuss a rather boring case. He was tired and nearly collapsed on the sofa. Sherlock recalled sitting next to him, talking. Lestrade was barely awake. They must have fallen asleep together.

'Mmm.. what?' Lestrade lifted his head. So much for sneaking away before he woke up. 'Sherlock?'

The reasonable thing to do was, naturally, to panic and talk nervously and establish if they had any other sort of contact. Sherlock knew that, but all he wanted to do was to stay where he was, half-lying on top of Greg Lestrade. Lestrade nearly fell to the floor, Sherlock pretended he was too sleepy to let him go easily.

'Oh, God!' Lestrade finally managed to stand up and took a quick look at his clothes, then at Sherlock. They were both fully dressed, one small comfort. 'What happened?'

'We fell asleep. That is all.'

Lestrade nodded frantically. He straightened his jacket, cleared his throat but nothing he could think of saying would make the situation less awkward. He ran down the stairs, probably thinking about that one hidden camera that Moriarty had installed before the fall. The idea of being watched, of someone seeing them sleeping together, was terrifying. Having sex with his DI would be easier to explain, a fully platonic nap was an absolute disaster. Sherlock thought of Moriarty's possible reaction to it and groaned loudly.

He got up to check the whole room for any recording device. That was a real problem and not an excuse to get off the sofa. Yes.

 

Sherlock never expected he would investigate John himself. Someone in John's clinic was stealing random things, from latex gloves through stethoscopes to chairs. It was so bizarre, the cunning thief disabled security cameras and clearly knew what he was doing. Sherlock didn't quite know how to interrogate John, who was too amused to cooperate. Greg Lestrade found the case hilarious as well and after work, instead of going to the pub to unwind, he joined Sherlock at the clinic. John didn't have too much time for them, his patients were dying of a runny nose and mild headache.

'Check the storage room for clues!' John chuckled and walked away, leaving them alone.

Sherlock didn't think it through. He had been avoiding being alone with Lestrade, as long as there were other people around them, preferably Sally and John, they didn't have to discuss the nap. But now it was just the two of them. Sherlock adjusted his scarf and turned to the shelves in hope of finding a clue, any clue.

'Look, Sherlock,' Greg started as soon as he closed the door. 'I think we need to talk about what happened.'

'No, no we don't!' Sherlock replied, only slightly anxiously.

'Yes, we do.'

Lestrade came closer to see Sherlock's face. 'That was the best nap ever,' he announced firmly.

Sherlock didn't know how to react. He was staring at him, unable to come up with a believable lie because it was true. It _was_ the best nap ever. The sweetest, most relaxing nap.

He hated taking naps, he would always wake up groggy and more tired than before. But with Greg... The solid comfort of his warm chest and strong arms protecting Sherlock, his slow, even breathing and his very presence, Sherlock couldn't lie to himself, he loved it. Nothing about that one, unplanned time together was unenjoyable. The closeness, the intimacy and touching made him feel... good. Comforted, safe. He could let his guard down and let Lestrade take care of him. He never knew he needed that, but he did. And ever since that day, he had been dreaming about another nap, about sleeping in Greg's arms. All night long. But he could not admit it.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he said instead.

'Come on. Say it. That was the best nap you've ever had!' Lestrade pressed on.

'Sherlock shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. 'I've had better.'

Lestrade slowly tilted his head back. 'Oh yes? When?'

Sherlock didn't have the strength to fight it anymore. 'All right! All right! It was the best nap ever!' He cried out. 'But it's over, Lestrade.'

Lestrade considered the situation for a long moment. The tension between them was palpable. They both wanted it so badly. To lie down on the nearest flat surface and cuddle, to sleep together whenever they were tired.

'I want to do it again,' Lestrade said simply.

'We can't do it again!'

'Why?'

'Because it's weird!' Sherlock explained. The idea of getting caught red-handed by John or Mycroft was enough to resist the temptation.

'Fine.' Lestrade gave up faster than Sherlock expected. 'After this, do you want to come to my place, have something to drink?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 'I know you mean warm milk. No, I'm going back to my flat, alone!'

Lestrade stopped talking. Sherlock wished he kept convincing him.

 

Sherlock was exhausted. Constantly irritated, uneasy, weary. Sleeping on his own became a problem. He wanted another cosy night with Lestrade.

He was in his sitting room. Alone. It was getting dark outside and cold. The urge to curl up under a blanket and use Lestrade's belly as a pillow was powerful. Sherlock whined, tired of his struggle. When he heard footsteps and saw Lestrade, it was a relief. Finally.

'Oh, hello. I was in the neighbourhood,' Lestrade smiled. 'I'm not feeling well. I do need to lie down.' And he made himself comfortable on the sofa.

Sherlock watched him. He wanted it, he craved it. Lestrade's body against his, their legs tangled together. He could slide his hand under Lestrade's jacket and nuzzle his neck. He needed it. Now.

It was better than he remembered. They were lying on their sides, face to face, arms around the other's back, snug as a bug in a rug. The warm sensation of cuddling with the right person lulled Sherlock to sleep in seconds. He had never felt more at peace.

'Mmm...' Lestrade woke up first and moved his head away from Sherlock's curls. 'Great nap.'

'It really was,' Sherlock smiled, satisfied and well-rested.

'Yeah,' agreed John.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. His mouth went dry. He considered hiding his face in Lestrade's neck, but Lestrade let go of him and again almost ended on the floor. Sherlock, abandoned and suddenly cold, sat up to face John.

John, Rosie, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft were staring at them. They had seen too much to be lied to. Sherlock wanted to hide under the cushion that still smelled like Lestrade. He didn't know what to say and knew for a fact that he would never hear the end of it.

Lestrade looked like he might jump out of the window. He put on a brave face and decided to use the stairs. 'Excuse me,' he said quietly as he walked past the silent audience.

No one said anything, they just smiled broadly, ridiculously amused. Even Mycroft found it funny. Maybe he was thinking about blackmailing Lestrade.

Sherlock, still tongue-tied, scrambled to his feet and made his way to his bedroom. A moment later he got a text. 'Tomorrow, my place?' He had never typed faster. 'Yes.'


End file.
